


How He Knew Honor Had Died

by Valemaz



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Grooming, Healing, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valemaz/pseuds/Valemaz
Summary: When Meridas Amaram arrives on the Shattered Planes, Kaladin is shaken to his core and drawn back to his time in his army. This time, some more memories have been uncovered and he knows he has to say something to stop Amaram from weaseling his way into Dalinar Kholin’s good graces. But who would believe him? One way or another, he will confront his former abuser and enslaver.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	How He Knew Honor Had Died

**Author's Note:**

> An exploration into a survivor Kaladin since the whole thing gives me (as a survivor) the exact same feelings as I did trying to get justice. Mind the trigger warnings but nothing is very detailed!

A hero had come to the Shattered Plains, a soldier had said. Come to meet Dalinar Kholin himself. It is supposed to be a good sign to help calm down the tensions between the high princes. 

Kaladin knows before he hears the name. He hollows out as Rock asks who he is. The soldier calls back with the expected answer. 

He nearly drops his spear, his entire body numb and icy. Rock glances towards him, a question forming on his lips. All he can do is run and run. He has to be sure it is really him, and this isn’t some cruel joke. 

He who had Kaladin had worshiped. He had held onto that despite the lingering touches that gradually developed into more... invasive things. Kaladin had believed in him despite it. He had saved his life. Then that ‘hero’ had killed his team and thrown him away like trash. 

Kaladin doesn’t care that people cry out or stare at him as he dashes by. They think something could be wrong, but he doesn’t care about soothing them. He has to know. 

Dalinar is in the distance, outside his bunkers, hands clasping with the monster. _Old friend_ , he calls him. _Old. Friend. It’s been too long._

Too long? Too long! 

He shows Dalinar his stolen shard blade, silver and flame like. It might as well drip with blood of the Kaladin’s men. He feels caught up in another life where he still believed that honor was real. Now all he feels is the phantom pain of the brand and wondering hands of a man who took advantage of him as a teenager. 

Highlord Amaram finally looks over to him, perfectly pristine, and his face briefly falls before rearranging into a questioning gaze of why would a branded dark eyes carry himself like that in front of his superiors. 

It takes every bit of self-control to stop Kaladin from launching himself at him. 

“Is something wrong, soldier?” Dalinar asks. 

“No. I...” Words escape him in Amaram’s presence and that blade. He can barely breathe. 

“I will see you tonight for dinner.” Amaram dismisses the shardblade and nods to Dalinar.

And just like that, the world continues on while the past chokes and crushes him. 

Sylphrena walks in the air in front of him, leaning over with her hands on her knees and tilting her head. Her tiny hand pokes his nose, and she asks, “What was that about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers and tries to pull himself together. Who would believe him anyway?

The second time Amaram had noticed Kaladin was while supervising a training session. Katas consume Kaladin as he moves through each motion as fluid as the watery soup rations. He closes his eyes, a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he spins and jabs and twirls, the wind caressing the sweat off his skin and the wisps of his long hair. Nothing has ever felt more right than it did now. He can imagine charging into the battle, defeating ten foe at once. If he could just prove himself, he could make his father proud by showing him this is who he was meant to be. But he wouldn’t be proud of one who harms and doesn’t heal.

Kaladin trips over his feet. Strong hands grab him before he plummets to the ground. A smooth and heroic voice says, “Make sure you pay attention to your surroundings. Your moves are beautiful but would be useless if you lose yourself.”

His eyes widen, and he stands up straight, saluting his general. “Yes, sir!”

Amaram nods, and slowly pries his hands away. He moves on to the next boy.

Tukks appears beside Kaladin and slaps him on the back. “Looks like you impressed him. Don’t let it go to your head. Start over.”

And so he does, this time careful not to escape. One word stands out in his mind: _beautiful_. It felt like a strange word to apply to a recruit fumbling around with a spear. He hopes to earn it one day. 

The third time Amaram had noticed him was after the first battle where Kaladin had frozen up. Tukks sent him to do cleaning duty, scrubbing at every pot and pan, pretending they needed to be sterile like Lirin’s surgical tools. His mind was raveled up in making dull metal shine that he did not notice his own general walking by, helmet under an arm and chatting with other light eyed officials. His words trailed off as he watched the boy and all the defining muscles caked with grime. Only by the same blue ribbon in Kaladin’s hair does he recognize him. 

Tien slides in beside his older brother and helps with a forgotten bowl. His cheeks are rosy with smiles and laughter, even in a place as dark as a war camp.

“What are you doing?” Kaladin asks and reached for the bowl. 

“I’m helping, Kal!” He holds the bowl out of range. 

He sighs and leans onto his knee. “This is my job to do tonight. You don’t need to do that.”

“But, I heard you got in trouble,” Tien’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. 

“It’s not like that at all.” He takes the bowl easily. There’s an iridescent shimmer to it, though Tien barely had ten seconds to work on it. Kaladin spends another hour trying to recreate it on similar materials, but it doesn’t work. 

The fourth time Amaram had noticed him, he had come back late from an awful battle. Tears streaked his dirty cheeks, his uniform tattered and bloody. Kaladin showed no physical injuries, but a permanent scar to his soul was bare for everyone to see. He heads towards the other edge of camp and Amaram follows. 

Kaladin collapses in the sullen field and presses his face into the dirt. He screams and claws at the ground, sending nearby grass into hiding. He failed Tien. Tien was dead. He was dead, and it was all of his fault. He didn’t get there fast enough. Storms, it’s all his fault. 

He senses boots near his head. His voice is raw as he says, “Please, not right now, Tukks.”

The man clears his voice and asks, “What has happened?”

A gasp escapes Kaladin’s lips, and he scrambles to his feet. Words refuse to form and he gapes at the general. 

So much sympathy reflects in his light tan eyes that he almost feels like he can tell him. Then Amaram touches his face, wiping away soil on his parted lips. 

“Sir...?” He breathes. 

Amaram withdraws and every bit of stoicism returns. “If you need something, speak up. I don’t wish my soldiers to go into battle in your state.”

Kaladin lowers his eyes and his shoulders slump. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Come with me. I will not leave you out here.” Amaram heads back without checking if he follows. 

Kaladin does, head hanging low and mind numb. Stray tears slip out of his eyes without permission. Before he realizes, he’s within Amaram’s personal tent. He hadn’t realized how many soldiers had watched the lowly dark eye walking beside the general. Everyone knows Amaram cares about his men, no matter how insignificant they are. It’s what Kaladin has always respected, though it’s far from his mind now. 

Amaram guides him to a washbasin and says, “I will have a fresh uniform brought.”

Kaladin swallows and gazes into his reflection. Never had he looked worse. He picks up the cloth and dunks it in the basin before scrubbing his face raw. 

“Your clothes.” Amaram is already back, hand on his cuff.

He hesitates, then removes his coat first, discomfort growing as Amaram watches each movement. Kaladin has to stop and look over. He can’t think of a reason why the general would watch... especially like that.

“Do you need assistance?” Amaram asks and moves to the hem of his undershirt. 

Kaladin doesn’t mean to smack his hand away, though he’s not sure how he should react. He shakes his head and continues to undress. Amaram thankfully walks away. Kaladin hurries through his cleaning, not sure if he’s still being watched or not. He feels selfish for being unable to think of Tien hours after he... after he.... he can’t. 

Amaram comes back and offers him a goblet of wine, blue and strongly scented of berries and lemon. “This will help.”

It doesn’t seem like a thing a hero would need. They’re supposed to be strong and honorable, not turn to booze to forget their troubles. Kaladin takes it anyway. Who is he to refuse a general’s offer, especially after his failure. It burns his throat as he gulps. If only his father could see him now. Amaram takes the goblet back, then swipes away the drizzle that rolls down Kaladin’s chin. He tastes it, closing his eyes and sighing. A strange shame overwhelms Kaladin, and he steps away, chest bare and only his underwear. He looks for his uniform, but it’s gone. 

Amaram picks up the cloth then kneels before him, taking his time with cleaning his legs. It feels wrong, not just because of their ranks, but that it shouldn’t be happening. These actions are so wrong and he can’t interpret what’s happening. Amaram drops the cloth back into the filthy water and rises. The wine swells in Kaladin’s head and it’s growing harder to think. Before he realizes it, Amaram’s hands strung through his hair, tugging at the barely hanging on blue ribbon. His lips are on his and every thought escapes him. All he can do was freeze, panic and pain paralyzing every inch of him. 

Why would he do this?

What could he have seen on the worst day of his life?

What did he do to deserve this?

It’s punishment for failing Tien. It has to be. He has to deserve this, otherwise it wouldn’t be happening. 

But this isn’t the man Amaram was supposed to be. He hurts and hurts him, ignoring the sobs and gasps of pain. Kaladin wants to scream, but all the mourning deprived him of it. The silk sheets make him want to vomit, though there’s nothing left in his stomach. 

He doesn’t understand that it was never about anything he had done. It was always about the sick twists within Amaram’s mind. He can’t get over it even now as a captain under Dalinar, supposedly someone to look up to. He’ll never get over it. Perhaps one day he will realize, and some crushing weight will chip away until he can breathe again. 

Now at twenty-one, he buries his face into his pillow to keep the other bridgemen from hearing their captain caught up in drowning emotions. Sylphrena sits on her legs next to his head with her hands clutched in her lap. He’s had so many episodes, each time she gradually understands the depths of his suffering. Shame pokes at her for bringing him blackbane at the Honor Chasm. All she wants is for him to be happy, but nothing works. She lies down and continues to keep watch over him. 

A hero had come to the Shattered Plains, a soldier had said. Come to meet Dalinar Kholin himself. It is supposed to be a good sign to help calm down the tensions between the high princes. 

Kaladin knows before he hears the name. He hollows out as Rock asks who he is. The soldier calls back with the expected answer. 

He nearly drops his spear, his entire body numb and icy. Rock glances towards him, a question forming on his lips. All he can do is run and run. He has to be sure it is really him, and this isn’t some cruel joke. 

He who had Kaladin had worshiped. He had held onto that despite the lingering touches that gradually developed into more... invasive things. Kaladin had believed in him despite it. He had saved his life. Then that ‘hero’ had killed his team and thrown him away like trash. 

Kaladin doesn’t care that people cry out or stare at him as he dashes by. They think something could be wrong, but he doesn’t care about soothing them. He has to know. 

Dalinar is in the distance, outside his bunkers, hands clasping with the monster. _Old friend_ , he calls him. _Old. Friend. It’s been too long._

Too long? Too long! 

He shows Dalinar his stolen shard blade, silver and flame like. It might as well drip with blood of the Kaladin’s men. He feels caught up in another life where he still believed that honor was real. Now all he feels is the phantom pain of the brand and wondering hands of a man who took advantage of him as a teenager. 

Highlord Amaram finally looks over to him, perfectly pristine, and his face briefly falls before rearranging into a questioning gaze of why would a branded dark eyes carry himself like that in front of his superiors. 

It takes every bit of self-control to stop Kaladin from launching himself at him. 

“Is something wrong, soldier?” Dalinar asks. 

“No. I...” Words escape him in Amaram’s presence and that blade. He can barely breathe. 

“I will see you tonight for dinner.” Amaram dismisses the shardblade and nods to Dalinar.

And just like that, the world continues on while the past chokes and crushes him. 

Sylphrena walks in the air in front of him, leaning over with her hands on her knees and tilting her head. Her tiny hand pokes his nose, and she asks, “What was that about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers and tries to pull himself together. Who would believe him anyway?

The second time Amaram had noticed Kaladin was while supervising a training session. Katas consume Kaladin as he moves through each motion as fluid as the watery soup rations. He closes his eyes, a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he spins and jabs and twirls, the wind caressing the sweat off his skin and the wisps of his long hair. Nothing has ever felt more right than it did now. He can imagine charging into the battle, defeating ten foe at once. If he could just prove himself, he could make his father proud by showing him this is who he was meant to be. But he wouldn’t be proud of one who harms and doesn’t heal.

Kaladin trips over his feet. Strong hands grab him before he plummets to the ground. A smooth and heroic voice says, “Make sure you pay attention to your surroundings. Your moves are beautiful but would be useless if you lose yourself.”

His eyes widen, and he stands up straight, saluting his general. “Yes, sir!”

Amaram nods, and slowly pries his hands away. He moves on to the next boy.

Tukks appears beside Kaladin and slaps him on the back. “Looks like you impressed him. Don’t let it go to your head. Start over.”

And so he does, this time careful not to escape. One word stands out in his mind: _beautiful_. It felt like a strange word to apply to a recruit fumbling around with a spear. He hopes to earn it one day. 

The third time Amaram had noticed him was after the first battle where Kaladin had frozen up. Tukks sent him to do cleaning duty, scrubbing at every pot and pan, pretending they needed to be sterile like Lirin’s surgical tools. His mind was raveled up in making dull metal shine that he did not notice his own general walking by, helmet under an arm and chatting with other light eyed officials. His words trailed off as he watched the boy and all the defining muscles caked with grime. Only by the same blue ribbon in Kaladin’s hair does he recognize him. 

Tien slides in beside his older brother and helps with a forgotten bowl. His cheeks are rosy with smiles and laughter, even in a place as dark as a war camp.

“What are you doing?” Kaladin asks and reached for the bowl. 

“I’m helping, Kal!” He holds the bowl out of range. 

He sighs and leans onto his knee. “This is my job to do tonight. You don’t need to do that.”

“But, I heard you got in trouble,” Tien’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. 

“It’s not like that at all.” He takes the bowl easily. There’s an iridescent shimmer to it, though Tien barely had ten seconds to work on it. Kaladin spends another hour trying to recreate it on similar materials, but it doesn’t work. 

The fourth time Amaram had noticed him, he had come back late from an awful battle. Tears streaked his dirty cheeks, his uniform tattered and bloody. Kaladin showed no physical injuries, but a permanent scar to his soul was bare for everyone to see. He heads towards the other edge of camp and Amaram follows. 

Kaladin collapses in the sullen field and presses his face into the dirt. He screams and claws at the ground, sending nearby grass into hiding. He failed Tien. Tien was dead. He was dead, and it was all of his fault. He didn’t get there fast enough. Storms, it’s all his fault. 

He senses boots near his head. His voice is raw as he says, “Please, not right now, Tukks.”

The man clears his voice and asks, “What has happened?”

A gasp escapes Kaladin’s lips, and he scrambles to his feet. Words refuse to form and he gapes at the general. 

So much sympathy reflects in his light tan eyes that he almost feels like he can tell him. Then Amaram touches his face, wiping away soil on his parted lips. 

“Sir...?” He breathes. 

Amaram withdraws and every bit of stoicism returns. “If you need something, speak up. I don’t wish my soldiers to go into battle in your state.”

Kaladin lowers his eyes and his shoulders slump. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Come with me. I will not leave you out here.” Amaram heads back without checking if he follows. 

Kaladin does, head hanging low and mind numb. Stray tears slip out of his eyes without permission. Before he realizes, he’s within Amaram’s personal tent. He hadn’t realized how many soldiers had watched the lowly dark eye walking beside the general. Everyone knows Amaram cares about his men, no matter how insignificant they are. It’s what Kaladin has always respected, though it’s far from his mind now. 

Amaram guides him to a washbasin and says, “I will have a fresh uniform brought.”

Kaladin swallows and gazes into his reflection. Never had he looked worse. He picks up the cloth and dunks it in the basin before scrubbing his face raw. 

“Your clothes.” Amaram is already back, hand on his cuff.

He hesitates, then removes his coat first, discomfort growing as Amaram watches each movement. Kaladin has to stop and look over. He can’t think of a reason why the general would watch... especially like that.

“Do you need assistance?” Amaram asks and moves to the hem of his undershirt. 

Kaladin doesn’t mean to smack his hand away, though he’s not sure how he should react. He shakes his head and continues to undress. Amaram thankfully walks away. Kaladin hurries through his cleaning, not sure if he’s still being watched or not. He feels selfish for being unable to think of Tien hours after he... after he.... he can’t. 

Amaram comes back and offers him a goblet of wine, blue and strongly scented of berries and lemon. “This will help.”

It doesn’t seem like a thing a hero would need. They’re supposed to be strong and honorable, not turn to booze to forget their troubles. Kaladin takes it anyway. Who is he to refuse a general’s offer, especially after his failure. It burns his throat as he gulps. If only his father could see him now. Amaram takes the goblet back, then swipes away the drizzle that rolls down Kaladin’s chin. He tastes it, closing his eyes and sighing. A strange shame overwhelms Kaladin, and he steps away, chest bare and only his underwear. He looks for his uniform, but it’s gone. 

Amaram picks up the cloth then kneels before him, taking his time with cleaning his legs. It feels wrong, not just because of their ranks, but that it shouldn’t be happening. These actions are so wrong and he can’t interpret what’s happening. Amaram drops the cloth back into the filthy water and rises. The wine swells in Kaladin’s head and it’s growing harder to think. Before he realizes it, Amaram’s hands strung through his hair, tugging at the barely hanging on blue ribbon. His lips are on his and every thought escapes him. All he can do was freeze, panic and pain paralyzing every inch of him. 

Why would he do this?

What could he have seen on the worst day of his life?

What did he do to deserve this?

It’s punishment for failing Tien. It has to be. He has to deserve this, otherwise it wouldn’t be happening. 

But this isn’t the man Amaram was supposed to be. He hurts and hurts him, ignoring the sobs and gasps of pain. Kaladin wants to scream, but all the mourning deprived him of it. The silk sheets make him want to vomit, though there’s nothing left in his stomach. 

He doesn’t understand that it was never about anything he had done. It was always about the sick twists within Amaram’s mind. He can’t get over it even now as a captain under Dalinar, supposedly someone to look up to. He’ll never get over it. Perhaps one day he will realize, and some crushing weight will chip away until he can breathe again. 

Now at twenty-one, he buries his face into his pillow to keep the other bridgemen from hearing their captain caught up in drowning emotions. Sylphrena sits on her legs next to his head with her hands clutched in her lap. He’s had so many episodes, each time she gradually understands the depths of his suffering. Shame pokes at her for bringing him blackbane at the Honor Chasm. All she wants is for him to be happy, but nothing works. She lies down and continues to keep watch over him. 


End file.
